


System Monitor

by LazarusII



Category: Tron - All Media Types, Tron: Uprising
Genre: Beck is in Trouble, Bumped to Mature Rating for Violence, Deresolution, Dyson is a sadistic interrogator, Gen, Graphic Description, Hurt, Mentions of Anon - Freeform, Mentions of Tron Uprising Scars arc, Pain, Post Tron Uprising Season One, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:01:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21693466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazarusII/pseuds/LazarusII
Summary: Beck was crashing. Already, his system was sending the critical-damage signal, counting down to a full shutdown.“Like I said,” Dyson ground his heel into the pile of cubes—formerly of Beck’s wrist. The security program seemed to revel in the hideous sound it produced.“You’re no Tron.”(I.E. Beck is reminded thatnota system monitor—the hard way.)
Relationships: Beck & Tron (Tron), Dyson & Tron (Tron)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 63





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> This fic takes place sometime after S1’s “Terminal,” but does not have any connection to the appearance of Clu or the fleet at the end. In short, it functions more as a one-shot when put into context of what’s considered ‘canon’. 
> 
> Content warnings: torture, “blood” (cubes/deresolution)
> 
> Enjoy!

The mission had gone wrong faster than Beck could’ve ever imagined. After sabotaging five tanks in the main cargo bay and destroying the newest version of a mobile repurposing unit, Beck had just managed to place two more charges in the weapon’s bay before the enemy caught up to him. 

The hall, a dark corridor with minimal red lighting, had seemed empty. No, it hadn’t just _seemed_ that way, it had _been_ empty. 

All that Beck knew was that he’d taken no more than two steps out of the weapons bay before the world erupted into chaos. The wall across from him detonate—not once but two times—sending shards of code in all directions. He, himself, hit the other side of the corridor, shrapnel burning its way through his suit and into his body. 

_Error._

_Error._

Beck’s head spun, his internal systems screaming. His vision swam, bits of static filling his optical sensors, creating great gaps to match the crack which now spanned the length of his faceplate. 

_Error._

Weakly, he pulled his arm below him, rotating slowly onto his front. Shards of code crunched below his body and he noted the scattered white-blue cubes alongside the larger chunks of now-derezzed wall. 

Pain lanced across his body. 

_Error._

His right leg. Chest. Right arm. Shoulders. 

Just below his collarbone, a growing patch of bleeding code marked where a section of shrapnel had hit him the hardest, the blackened piece of wall visible where it had pierced the suit. 

He shook his head, fighting to clear his head which pounded terribly, echoes of the explosion still ringing in his audio sensors. 

A pair of legs dropped into Beck’s field of view, too quiet to be that of a black guard. 

For a moment, Beck thought it was Paige, but something seemed… off. 

Wrenching himself from the floor, he threw himself backwards, crouching even as he reached back to grab his disk. His system screamed, the pain from his chest intensifying tenfold. His internal system called for him to remove the shrapnel, to allow for the self-repair program to initiate. But that wasn’t an option.

disk raised, he stared at his enemy, feeling his core sink with dread. The program across from him wasn’t Paige. Taller, built stronger, and bearing far more visible gadgets and weapons, the program activated his disk, sneering down at Beck with contempt.

For a moment, the security program seemed to squint at him, as if sizing him up, before relaxing in posture. Beck felt his core grow a few degrees colder. 

“Dyson,” he spat, doing his best not to limp as he straightened up. 

“Hello, _Tron_ .” The program let his disk fall from his hand, spinning it idly around his finger by a bright red energy band. “Or should I say… _imposter_.”

Beck narrowed his eyes from beneath the mask. 

Dyson seemed to take his momentary silence as proof.

“Yes, Renegade, I know you’re not Tron. You forget that I worked with him for many cycles. I know what he looks like, what mask he wears with that armor… and the height and stature that you seem to lack. The fools here don’t have a clue—but I do.”

Sneering, the security program struck, whipping his disk downwards. Beck had only a second’s warning to dodge the disk as it drove downwards. He dove to the side, disk raised. 

Sneering, Dyson pulled the band taught and the disk abruptly changed course, careening after Beck at an impossible speed. 

Ducking, Beck dodging once more, stumbling backwards as pain flared in his chest. Code dripped from the wound in his collarbone, increasing with every move. Of all his injuries, it sapped at his strength the most. Seemingly invisible wounds seemed to open up with his every move, bleeding code the more that he fought. 

“You’re no system monitor,” Dyson laughed, swinging his disk again, “Tron would never would’ve been wounded this easily. You’re weak, Renegade.”

Beck bared his teeth, “you’re wrong.” 

Deep down, however, a part of him was agreeing with the traitorous security program. After all, he was only a mechanic; programs of his designation were intended to master the ins and outs of machinery and construction—hardly the stuff for combat. He might someday grow to match his mentor in skill, but he did not have the dense coding of a system monitor. He never would.

Dyson’s disk whirled downward and Beck came up to meet it, blocking the deadly weapon with his own. Rotating, he feigned with his good leg, aiming a high kick before abruptly lashing out with his damaged limb. 

The security program easily caught the kick. Gripping Beck’s leg with a surprisingly strong grip, Dyson whipped around, sending the unlucky program directly into the wall. 

Beck made contact with the hard surface with the side of his head, then with his shoulder and hip. The world went sideways, then a haze overtook him, a black tinge threatening to swallow his vision. 

_Error._

_Error._

Stifling a curse, Beck felt for his disk and spied it several feet in front of him. He dove, seeing Dyson do the same with his peripheral vision. 

Lunging, his fingers brushed the very rim of his disk before a dark boot intercepted his hand, smashing down on his wrist with brutal force. 

Beck yelled in pain, renewed warnings lighting up his system. 

Lashing out with another kick, Beck nearly broke free. A foot drove itself into his midsection, causing more errors to pop up. 

He couldn’t breathe, his internal respirator struggling to compensate for the sudden trauma. 

Another kick sent his head into the wall for the third time. His ears rang from the force of the blow, his vision swimming. 

Gritting his teeth, he closed his free hand about the foot still firmly planted on his wrist. It was a weak position and he couldn’t make any headway in moving it. 

“It’s a pity that you’re the Renegade,” Dyson’s voice floated into his audible receptors like a poison, “well, a pity for _you_. If you really were Tron, then I’d have to spare your life under Clu’s orders. But you’re not, so I can do whatever I want with you.” 

The sound of a disk activating sent Beck’s system into overdrive. His struggles became increasingly wild and violent. 

“You’re mine, Renegade.”

With a savage sound of pleasure, Dyson struck, his disk an orange blur as he rent Beck’s arm in two. Stepping back, the security program laughed manically. 

Beck’s body was on fire. Cubes bled from his arm, mixing with the dead code of the detonated wall. Below Dyson’s boot, as Beck’s hand derezzed, crunching ominously beneath the program’s foot. 

He was crashing, his visual sensors overloading with the attempt to stay functional. Already, his system was sending the _critical damage_ signal, counting down to the full-shutdown which would trigger the repair sequence. 

“Like I said,” Dyson ground his heel into the pile of cubes—formally of Beck’s wrist, seeming to revel in the hideous sound it produced. “You’re no Tron.”

Beck was increasingly struggling to stay conscious. He needed to stay awake, he couldn’t afford to lose it now—

Hissing, Beck hauled himself into a sitting position. Every movement sent tongues of flame up his system, igniting every ounce of code in his body. 

Dyson drew back his arm and thrust his disk down at an angle, forming a deadly arc. Beck raised his chin and glared up at the pale face above him. It was the end, that strike was aimed right for his neck and in his current condition there was no evading its path. 

Then the disk made contact, sending him to the side, the impact sending shockwaves down his spine. 

Beck’s visual sensors failed first, then his audio sensors gave way to a cacophony of static—and then the rest of his system followed, plunging Beck into perpetual darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dyson’s POV and the trip to the interrogation room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long wait! I lost inspiration there for a while and didn’t know where to go, but now I’m back on track. 
> 
> Quick note that this chapter does reference the time when Tron was tortured.
> 
> So basically, trigger warnings for anything dealing with torture. 
> 
> And on that note:
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_Eyes running over the slumped figure before him, the security program snorted, docking his disc. He’d turned his weapon at the last second, saving the foolish program’s life. Still, sections of code had destabilized along the Renegade’s neckline, forming a latticework of burning, blue-tinted pixels._

_Dyson turned at the sound of heavy footsteps. Even as he stood there, watching, waves of black guards poured into the hall._

_“Late,” he murmured under his breath. “Always late, nowadays.”_

_Unacceptable._

_Such lapses in security might pass in Argon, but in Tron City it was a punishable offense._

_He huffed, shaking his head at the uneven lines._

_Pathetic._

_It didn’t surprise him one bit that the Renegade had managed to remain free for so long._

_Folding his arms, motioned to the nearest guard to take care of the Renegade._

_As the black guard approached, Dyson kicked at the white-armored program’s remaining hand, finding odd amusement in the way that it flopped about lifelessly._

_The wonders of a complete shutdown._

_Before he vacated the hall, Dyson made sure to retrieve the Renegade’s disc._

_They had much to discuss… whenever it was that “Tron” chose to awaken._

_Two black guards at the head of the line approached the Renegade, grasping the prone figure just above the elbows. Roughly, they dragged him forward. Code seeped from the white program’s stump of a hand, trailing behind the small procession as they made for the East side of the command ship.  
_

_The other sentries immediately got to work scanning the area, searching for clues that didn’t exist._

_Dyson couldn’t help but let a smile spread across his face as a sick pleasure washed through his circuits._

_He had yet another opportunity to finally ensnare the Monitor. Tron’s errand boy was strong and untouched by viral code, a fighter wearing the uniform of another program._

_The perfect subject._

_The perfect bait._

_How long would Tron stand aside and watch his apprentice suffer? Would the boy scream? Or would he follow the path of his Master and beg for more._

_Just one sound would’ve ended it—but then again, it was Tron…_

_The blessed “hero” who couldn’t save anyone and supported the vermin of the grid like the Creator._

_Running a finger about the rim of his disc, Dyson hummed softly. In front of them, two large doors swung open to reveal an operation table, restraints empty and waiting for their next guest._

_Plain, dark walls loomed on all four sides, the opaque glass panels occasionally broken by a line of pulsing, red code. Only the crescent-shaped construct of operation table, tool desk, and control panel impeded on the monotony of the interrogation room._

_As they entered the space, Dyson threw out an arm, catching the guard right behind him. If the program was surprised at his move, he didn’t show it._

_“Take this up to command,” he ordered, shoving the pearly-white disc into the program’s free hand. “Send for Commander Paige to accompany you before you leave.”_

_He left his doubts unsaid. The matter of security in Argon would soon be attended to._

_Now for their esteemed guest…_

_It was a pity that Clu wasn’t here to convert the Renegade’s disc._

_The guards looked at him, still dragging the prisoner and Dyson nodded his head towards the table. Wordlessly, the guards pulled the Renegade off the ground with ease, harshly slamming the unconscious program to the dark paneling before applying the restraints._

_He has been the torturer, made legend by the underworld in Bismuth after the deresolution of Tron’s honor guard… the ones who’d managed to escape the first time._

_Dyson smirked as he remembered Anon, the fool. Precious few knew the names of those who had served beneath the great Tron._

_Shadows. All of them._

_With his right hand, Dyson lifted a small device from the table; it had three blades which were fastened to a circular ring. He pressed a small button on the handle and the blades whirred to life, a deadly blur which could cut deep into code with the slightest touch. He’d held a tool of similar design a very long time ago._

_Dyson’s eyes flicked to the white-clad figure beside him._

_Same uniform. Different program._

_But the coding mattered._

_It always mattered._

_Shutting the device, Dyson sighed, placing it back on the desk. No, that tool was too powerful for the coding of the Renegade. His plan wasn’t to derezz—not yet. And no other program had survived but the System Monitor himself, virus and all._

_Slowly circling the prisoner, he sized up the boy, looking at the existing damage with disdain._

_He was as much a scientist as a sadistic interrogator and it was a disappointment for there to be such variables in his experiment._

_In a swift motion, Dyson withdrew a baton from the tool desk, turning it slowly in his hand before activating the sword._

_His processor quickened—the anticipation growing._

  
  


_It was time for the Renegade to get a taste of what his so-called Master had been given so long ago._

_It was time for him to wake up._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It's been a while with this fic, but I thought I might as well get an update in ;)  
> Blame Dyson for almost single-handedly doubling the size of this chapter.   
> Please be warned that this chapter _is_ pretty graphic!
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!

Beck swam back to consciousness in the worst of pain of his entire life. His core spun irregularly, occasionally sending jolts of energy through his circuits. Errors screeched all across his system in a cacophony of noise and red flashes, the terrible fallback of a damage-induced system overload. 

Stifling a groan, Beck fought to control his breathing. His core accelerated, internal processors warning of yet  _ another  _ emergency shutdown. 

How long had he been out?

He could remember everything, and hear echoes of Dyson’s laughter in his ears. 

_ “It’s a pity that you’re no Monitor--I hoped you would be--imagine my disappointment when I found out who you really are.”  _ The sadistic maniac had honestly sounded saddened.

_ “Even that cheap knockoff, Anonymous, could have taken more than you.”  _ He’d paused, face contorting as if to recall something. 

_ “Oh, right, he  _ was  _ a Monitor. The ISOs, thought, now they were strong--plagues to the grid itself, but strong.”  _

Rage had fueled him, filling his core with a desperate need for survival. It was a desperate need for justice, to make the security program pay for what he’d done. 

Dyson would pay for this, pay for all the lives he’d taken. Maybe that had been a part of the reason why he hadn’t derezzed on the spot, the moment the program had started carving away his circuitry. 

Never had Beck hated a program more than Dyson. 

  
  


Beck willed himself to think--to pull his thoughts back into the present. To even  _ begin  _ processing what was around him seemed impossible. For one, the internal alerts were too damn loud, and that wasn’t even taking the intense fatigue which ate at every ounce of his being.

_ Error.  _

He didn’t need to open his eyes to know that his arm was gone. He could feel the code dripping away, the cubes brushing against his side and pooling about his feet. In his mind, he could picture the blue-white cubes hitting the ground. 

Something had happened to his chest since he’d gone into shutdown--something  _ bad _ . It burned like his arm, but differently. A terrible aching sensation pulled at his energy now and then in an almost-unnatural way. 

Maybe he was imagining things. After all, his entire system was on the verge of collapse, but… 

_ Error.  _

_ Error.  _

Internally, he cursed Dyson. 

He cursed the way the security program had laughed and demeaned him, and the overt, terrible glee that had spread across his face when Beck’s code had begun to destabilize. 

It was sickening. 

A part of Beck wished that he’d let Tron kill the program, but he actively tried to crush that train of thought. 

Something nearby him hissed, and Beck felt a rush of cool air hit him as his body was moved into what felt like a large, open area. 

For the first time since regaining consciousness, he opened his eyes. 

Beck’s core faltered, shock rippling through his mind. 

_ What— _

He was on the bridge of the modified recognizer, cuffed and strapped down to a dark backboard of sorts. Dyson stood next to him with a bored expression on his face. 

“Congratulations,  _ Renegade _ . There’s been a change of plans. You’ve officially been granted an audience with Clu himself,” he said with a sneer. 

Around them, programs bustled about silently, working the controls at their various tactical posts, but Beck couldn’t see them clearly.

His core was spinning, his internal respirator suddenly struggling against the wave of panic which raced through him. 

_ What.  _

Dyson, moved forward, advancing down the central aisle of the bridge. 

Hands, gloved with glowing, red circuitry, curled around the edge of the backboard. Moments later, Beck felt himself being roughly pushed after Dyson by a pair of guards. 

Beck gritted his teeth as he felt his arm derezz just a little bit more with the movement, cubes clattering to the floor behind them, crunching beneath his captor’s shoes. His system pinged more error messages. 

The only good thing about the pain was that it jolted him out of his dazed headspace. 

Dyson came to a halt near the large, transparent viewport. Turning, the security program glowered at one of the programs working ops. 

“Have you pinpointed Tron’s location?” He asked in that same, oily voice. 

“Yes, Sir.” Came the automatic response. “One of the guards just reported in from near the reactor room.” 

“Good.” Dyson folded his arms. “This ship is down no matter what happens, Tron will see to that. Change course for the outlands and issue a narrow-band evacuation order to all Capital-issued black guards, divert the rest to the lower decks.” 

_ He’s sacrificing Tesler’s soldiers,  _ Beck realized with horror. 

The ops program goggled at her superior before nodding. “Yes…Sir.” 

Dyson eyed her suspiciously, clearly displeased with her hesitation. “See to it, Program.” 

Beck leaned his head back and closed his eyes again. His mask thudded softly against the metal behind him. Before his eyes, deckplates of the modified recognizer seemed to bend and twist, spinning slowly in his vision. 

He pinged his visual sensors: 

_ Error _ . 

Typical. 

He desperately needed to get back to Tron, to  _ warn  _ the monitor before it was too late… but… 

The deep gash in his chest blazed with pain, and his internal cooling system struggled to slow the hot, burning sensation which was slowly spreading across his circuits. 

It hurt.

It hurt so bad… 

He’d walked right into Dyson’s trap and failed. His disc was gone, somewhere on the ship… 

_ Think, Beck _ . 

Pinging his internal processors one at a time, Becks’ frustration began to build as the full extent of his injuries finally crashed down upon his mind. 

He was weak. 

Useless. 

And there was a good chance that he was about to be carted off to Tron City… to Clu. 

Leaning into the restraints, he weakly tried to fight them. 

Cubes spilled down his chest onto his legs. Cracks spread alarmingly up the stump of his right arm, arcing well up into his shoulder as he fought the long cable which held his chest to the backboard. 

Alarm shot through his core and he let out a breath, fighting back the error messages once more. His system was pointing towards another energy shutdown. 

_ Not good.  _

Slowing his breathing, he focused on letting go of his anger. 

_ He’ll do anything--will say anything--to provoke me. Tron warned me about this all those cycles ago… He’s a genius with a silver tongue.  _

Dyson glanced back at him and huffed, a look of disgust flashing across his face. “Someone get patches on the prisoner’s wounds before he derezzes.” 

Beck gritted his teeth and snarled. The mask’s modulator distorted his voice into a deep snarl. 

_ Don’t let him provoke you, stop…  _

Chuckling, Dyson leaned closer to beck and patted him on his good shoulder with a gloved hand. 

“There’s no use fighting,  _ Renegade _ , not even Tron could get out of those restraints. It’s been  _ proven _ . And, as I said, you have much to learn about what it means to truly be a monitor. Truth be told, I’m still surprised that you’ve survived for so long.”

With a finger, the security program traced the cracks in Beck’s code which snaked their way up the stump of Beck’s right arm. He lightly tapped one of its darkened, blue fracture points lightly, smirking as it derezzed just a bit further.

Beck tried to move away from the program’s touch, but the restraints held him in place. 

“I know how a beta derezzes, Renegade. I know how  _ all  _ programs do. I’ve seen enough death to know the difference between programs just by the cubes they leave behind. You and your generation think that you’re  _ so strong _ , that you can stand up to us and walk away without a scratch.. I’m amazed that so many think you’re really Tron. The way you throw yourself into the action--” 

He gestured wildly before leaning in close again “--is  _ laughable _ .” 

Beck bit back the urge to scream as Dyson pushed on the same fracture on his shoulder. More cracks appeared, briefly flaring teal-blue against the white of his armor before darkening. 

Breathing fast, he tried to slow his core which whirled in his chest. 

_ Don’t show pain. Don’t-- _

“It’s interesting that Tron allowed you to wear his armor.” Dyson stepped back and folded his arms across his chest. “Have you ever wondered why it’s so light?”

Beneath the darkened mask, Beck’s brow furrowed. The security program had piqued his interest.

While Beck was Tron’s apprentice--to put it into simple terms--Dyson had worked under Tron for many cycles a long time ago… And, as much as he hated Dyson, he had a feeling that the security program might  _ actually  _ know Tron better than himself… 

Somehow, the realization stung. 

Tron was so secretive… so…  _ dark.  _

So why  _ was  _ the white armor so light? It was something that he’d always thought about asking Tron. Considering it was made for combat, one would’ve thought that it would provide more protection… Unless… 

Dyson was obsessed with code, with deresolution, and pain. Even several nanos with the security program had told Beck that. 

And so, knowing that, it would make sense that the program was implying that Tron’s coding didn’t need protection like Beck’s did. 

That much was obvious now. 

“Good, good,” Dyson’s sneer met Beck’s audio sensors like poison. Clearly, he’d guessed Beck’s train of thought. 

“Congratulations on figuring out that you’ve been a fool.” 

Beck held his tongue. 

_ Control. You’ll derez if you do anything stupid. And then what good will you be to the revolution?  _

  
  


An occupation soldier appeared, holding a medpack. Nodding, Dyson motioned for the program to begin treating Beck’s wounds. Roughly, the program slapped on the patches, sending new waves of agony through Beck’s system. 

In the moment of silence which followed, Beck glanced out the viewport. He froze. They had changed course earlier, he’d known that. But they were now headed across a very familiar looking stretch of land. Ahead, a set of mountains was approaching--

And, dead center in the viewscreen, right in their path… 

The spire. 

_ No--how-- _

Beck’s core dropped as dread weighted down his circuits, overriding any sense of pain that he felt. 

Even as he watched, another vehicle appeared crossing over their line of sight and matching pace with the upgraded recognizer, hovering just below the starboard side of the viewscreen. 

It was a jet, nothing like the one-person fighters that could be rezzed from a baton. This was much larger, and sported both a cabin and its own set of gun turrets.

The occupation soldier bowed to Dyson before retreating, having finished patching up Beck’s wounds. 

At that moment, he heard the door to the bridge hissed open. The soft click of heels against the bridge’s metallic floor filled the air, just as a cool, painfully-familiar voice met his ears. 

“You called for me, Sir?” 

Beck bowed his head, feeling ill. 

_ Paige _ . 

“Yes.” Dyson turned, fixing his gaze on the female Commander. “By order of Clu, you are relieved of duty from General Tesler--effective immediately.” 

Surprise shot through Beck, but it was nothing compared to the shock and rage reflected in the Commander’s face. 

She stammered incoherently, clearly struggling for words. 

“You will retain rank and status within the Occupation,  _ Commander _ , but as of this moment, you are assigned to me personally.” 

A stab of pity ran through Beck as he watched Paige struggle to comprehend what was happening. 

_ To be assigned to this creep…  _

Dyson didn’t give her the chance to respond, turning back to the program at ops instead. 

“Where is Tron now?” 

“Still receiving reports of him in the lower levels, Sir.” The program responded. 

Dyson nodded to her and then pointed to another program seated at a different station. 

“You, send a transmission to Clu. One word: fall.” 

He turned back to the first program, glaring at her. “Proceed as planned, soldier. Adjust trajectory for thirty degrees above that peak.” 

Even as he spoke, the recognizer began to gain altitude and speed. The jet off their starboard side followed their lead moments later. 

_ The explosions--the charges. They knew that we were going to place them and anticipated what would happen.  _ Beck’s mind raced. 

Despair burned in his core. 

_ We’re going to destroy our own hideout. Tron’s home and the only place that we had left to hide in.  _

An explosion rocked the bridge and Dyson smiled. Nodding at Paige, he began to walk towards the viewport, motioning for her to follow. 

“I would have called that pathetic medic to join us as well, but you are one yourself, aren’t you my dear?” 

“Yes Sir.” Paige’s voice was stiff. 

Hands balled up at her sides, she followed the security program. 

The deckplates vibrated roughly as Beck was pushed after them. He winced, groaning as his wounds throbbed. 

Panic was rising in his core, choking him.  _ Come on, Tron.  _

He sent a silent plea to the Grid, to the Creator--to anyone out there--

_ Please, Tron, get out of here.  _

Beck imagined the old program, many decks below them, mowing down black guards, oblivious to the disaster unfolding around them. 

_ Please.  _

Another explosion rocked the recognizer as Dyson cut a ragged hole in the viewport with his disc. Over his shoulder, Beck could see the mountains looming in front of them, growing closer and closer with every passing nano. 

The wind howled through the hole in the glass, streaming into the bridge. 

The ship shuddered again. 

Smoke billowed around them and Paige yelled out a warning as a large chunk of dark metal broke off, flying close to their position. It embedded itself in the viewport off to their right, cracks expanding from its point of contact. 

Suddenly the spire seemed very,  _ very  _ close. Beck could almost point out the exact locations of the floors and rooms concealed within from where they were--and it was still coming closer, their trajectory almost spot on--

“Too slow.” The security program’s snarl took him by surprise. 

Dyson spun, kicking Paige roughly out of the recognizer. She yelled as she was slammed into the edge of the smaller ship’s open hatch. 

Beck felt a terrible sinking feeling as the security program’s eyes fixed on him next.

“Live up to the name,  _ Tron _ , boy,” Dyson hissed, spinning him around. 

Head lolling, Beck struggled to stay conscious, his internal processors unable to make up for the sudden movement in his weakened state. 

“Prove that you’re not as weak as I think you are,” the security program’s face was mere centimeters away from his own.

To Beck’s horror, he felt himself being slowly lowered backwards out of the recognizer. Panic overcoming all sense of pain, he struggled to free his remaining arm, fingers grasping desperately for something to hold onto--

_ No--no.  _

This was a nightmare, a  _ true  _ nightmare. 

And then he was falling, the restraints cutting into his chest, arms, and legs. The wind whipped about his body, icy-cold against the raw code of his chest and arm. 

Beck let out a yell and closed his eyes, feeling his internal respirator reject the frost-laden air of the outlands. 

The corner of the backboard collided with something hard, sending ruthless shockwaves through his body. 

Beck’s head slammed into the metal and stars burst in his vision. A deep, aching pain radiated across the rest of his head and travelled down his spine.

His body had been at its limit before. 

Now--

Darkness slammed down on his vision as the error messages howled. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Flashback to Purgos]  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> So somehow I couldn't get my brain out of Tron: Uprising this week. Here we are with another chapter!  
> Now, I'd say that this chapter probably has the most headcanon of the other three--I'm a bit nervous to see what you guys think of it!  
> There is one specific grappling/combat term that I linked into the text, just in case you don't know what I'm talking about. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

**_[A few cycles ago… ]_ **

_The darkness of Purgos was oppressive, weighing heavily on both the sprawl of buildings and any program living within its depths. Above the city, dark clouds hung low, and a slight drizzle filled the air with a haze which blurred all sense of detail across the rough skyline._

_Beneath a large complex of grimy buildings, a figure detached itself from the shadows, moving slowly around the corner of the slightly-damaged construct before vaulting up the sides of an adjacent alleyway._

_As the program moved, a flicker of red could be seen from beneath the folds of a long travelling cloak. His circuits were darkened, a precious few left illuminated for stealth’s sake._

_Pulling himself onto the rooftop, the program crouched, his posture hunched like that of a predator, gloved hands pressing against the surface of the building. Water streamed across the slanted rooftop, pooling around his feet before plummeting to the street below._

_His fingertips began to glow slightly, and his circuitry pulsed. The grid responded a moment later, pulsing red in a wide radius. Holographic footprints faded into view, traces of another program’s presence--invisible to all but a few._

_Slowly, the program rose to his feet and shook the water from his gloved hands._ _Droplets of condensation rolled down his fully-opaque helmet, but he ignored them._

_The footprints disappeared._

_Shaking his head, the program glanced around, eyes scraping the surrounding rooftops._

_Nothing._

_His face, masked from view, tilted back to take in the rest of the city._

_Purgos's streets glittered in all directions, shadowed and oddly beautiful to the eye, yet disgraceful in its existence. Once, it had been a hub of industry, a boom town drawing prospectors from all across the Grid… But it was too far away from the capital, too isolated to be of use..._

_Obsolete._

_A waste._

_The program’s sensors pinged an alert and he ducked, the long travelling cloak trailing behind him, tossing flecks of water into the air as he moved. Rolling, he sprang back to his feet, dodging just in time to avoid the white-edged disc which would’ve sunk itself in his chest._

_The disc arced through the air before returning to its owner's hand._

_“Wait.” The Occupation soldier raised his hands._

_A second program stepped out from behind the roof entrance of a nearby building. His eyes glowed in the light cast from the city, only slightly shadowed by the blazing, white circuits which covered his body in great detail._

_“I come with a message from Clu himself.” His drawling voice was unwavering, even as the white-circuited program leaped across the gap between the two buildings, landing directly in front of him._

_With a hint of a sneer, the Occupation soldier moved closer to the other program. “You might just want to hear it.”_

_The white-circuited program laughed in his face, teeth barred in a feral grin._

_“And what makes you think that I would ever listen to anything you scum ever have to say?”_

_Humming, the orange-circuited program looked up into the other’s face, as if sizing the him up. This did not do him much good, seeing that he was nearly a head shorter than the other program._

_“I think you’ll listen to me because we know_ exactly _what you really are. And unlike others--we have the means to destroy you. It would be in your best interest to come quietly.”_

_“I doubt that very much.” The white-circuited face contorted into a sort of twisted smile, accentuating the glowing tattoos which covered his features._

_There was a pause. Tension hung in the air like a plague._

_“If I were still a part of your silly little game, I would call you Lieutenant…”_

_He looked the Occupation soldier with disgust, moving back towards the edge of the roof with an air of superiority. Pausing, he shot another look over his shoulder at the silent figure behind him._

_“... I also believe that I never properly congratulated you on your promotion--Dyson. How does it feel to be Clu's_ personal _toy now?_ ”

_Dyson slowly lowered his mask--and then his hood. He wore a calm, yet chilling expression. “How long has it been,_ soldier _, since you betrayed us? Since you lost your way?”_

_“Too long for you Occupation fools, apparently.” The program’s lip curled. “And it’s Cyrus.”_

_A dangerous gleam was beginning to awaken in his eyes, a terrible desire to kill…_

_Dyson’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I see”_

_Cyrus dramatically traced his fingers across the edge of his disc. When he spoke, his tone was dripping in sarcasm. “Could it be… perhaps… that ‘his excellence’ has already forgotten that I_ defected?"

_Dyson snorted softly._

_“Now--we both know that isn’t true, is it?” The security program's voice was dangerously low. “I’m sure you’ve figured it out already,_ soldier _.”_

_Cyrus sighed dramatically, barring his teeth. The disc in his hands flared briefly before returning to its darkened state. His eyes flicked to Dyson, evaluating the other program’s reaction._

_Dyson’s eyes glinted in a near perfect reflection of the madness of the program standing before him._

_“How long did it take for you to realize it?”_

_Cyrus moved closer, ignoring him. He glared down at the security program._ _“No one defects from the Occupation--from Clu. It's all a part of the game, parts of the puzzle. I will be the first never to return.” He brandished his disc._

_Dyson shook his head, fixing the Cyrus with a stare._

_“I’m giving you the chance to come willingly, Cyrus. I’m giving you a_ gift _, the chance to become a hero of the Occupation--to become the next Tron--”_

_Cyrus growled, tattoos curving across his skin menacingly. “Choose your next words carefully, Dyson. Now tell me--_ why are you here? _You're always playing more than one game."_

_Poison dripped from his every word, eyes leveled at Dyson, his gaze weighted with countless cycles of hate._

_“It’s a win-win scenario, in my opinion.” Dyson said softly, folding his arms. “You give me what I want--a simple momento from one of Tesler's 'precious' Commanders--and I’ll give you the chance to kill Tron.” '_

_Cyrus let out a hiss, rolling his eyes, “I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than_ that _.”_

_“I haven’t finished yet,” Dyson’s voice showed none of the impatience which flashed across his face. “We will give you the chance to kill Tron--yes. But, in my opinion, killing him is easy.”_

_Cyrus scoffed at that, but remained quiet._

_Dyson held out a small datapad, one running on a localized server which could not be traced. His voice lowered._

_“What if I could give you the means to_ destroy _him.”_

_Cyrus froze. After a moment, a slow smile began to spread across his face. “I’m listening.”_

_“We can offer you an audience, a stage which the entire grid can see. There will be no rebellion, no martyr--you will have the honor for bringing down the mighty Tron--everyone will despise his legacy and know your name as their savior.”_

_Hesitantly, Cyrus reached for the datapad, a look of mild interest on his face. His fingers brushed its glassy surface and he shuddered as the surface lit up orange. It was a simple login screen--locked to all but those in the Occupation..._

_Dyson could practically see the program’s internal mechanism thinking through his words. The temptation, it was there._

_Cyrus’s eyes narrowed._

_Dyson was only given a split second’s warning to pull back his arm before the two halves of the datapad fell to the rooftop. Hissing, he backtracked, tearing the cloak from his shoulders, and drawing his disc._

_A high-pitched, cold laugh escaped Cyrus's lips as he slashed downwards at the occupation soldier. The tattoos on the program's face seemed to glow, matching the rage painted on his face._

_Rolling away, Dyson spun his disc on its cord, feeling its familiar weight in his hand. Sending it whirling towards the white-circuited menace._

_He could see the cursed monitor’s technique already, reflected in the way that Cyrus fought. The program's stance screamed of ‘Tron’--his posture and control…_ _But, lucky for Dyson, Tron was someone who he knew quite well._

_Cyrus attacked in a series of vicious strikes aimed for Dyson’s head and chest. The security program blocked two of the three and dodged the last one, throwing himself into the air as the other program dropped into a low sweep._ _It was predictable, laughably so._

_Cyrus was good._

_But Tron was better._

_And Dyson now had been given the pleasure of fighting them both._

_He blocked an overhand strike and dodged Cyrus’s next kick, memorizing the circuit lines in the program’s body. In the darkness, they revealed everything--his movements and his energy._

_Cyrus was below him, his disc coming up towards his leg. It was an attack which certainly was difficult to block, at least for any_ normal _program._

_Dyson countered, driving his other wrist into the glowing, orange cable connected to his disc, pulling it taught. The weapon abruptly changed course, rocketing downwards._

_He didn’t want to kill the ex-soldier. After all, Cyrus, like Tron, was of no use dead, especially now. Both had their parts to play…_

_The orange disc slammed into Cyrus’s dock, causing the program to let out a howl of pain as he crashed to the ground._

_Dyson kicked him in the head, only to lose his footing as the other program grabbed his ankle and pulled. As he hit the ground, he felt Cyrus pull him closer. The program ruthlessly drove an elbow into one of his circuit lines._

_Letting out a yell, Dyson reacted instinctively and pushed his hips upwards and wrapping his legs around the other program’s torso. Cyrus lost his balance and teetered, disc raised._

_Core spinning, Dyson lunged upwards, and wrapped his arm around Cyrus’s neck, pulling the white-circuited program on top of him in the hopes of catching him in a[guillotine](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guillotine_choke). The white-rimmed disc splashed down in a puddle and deactivated. _

_Cyrus, however, would not allow himself to be subdued. Dyson felt the program twist, fingers digging into his circuits like claws. Cursing his own code, the security program abandoned his attempt and kicked Cyrus away as hard as he could._

_As they continued fighting, Dyson began to notice a slight difference in how Cyrus held himself. The program was not using the more acrobatic technique which Tron was so well-known for, frequently backing off uncharacteristically, eyeing him angrily._

_Cyrus had to be injured. It would be the only logical explanation for this change. A program of his caliber certainly needed to take more damage to show such signs of fatigue... That could only mean that he'd been in a fight recently... and lost. Badly._

_Dyson decided that it was a perfect opportunity to start pressing into the other program’s ego._

_Letting his characteristic smirk creep up onto his face, backed up, and lazily tapped his disc against the palm of his hand. “Such a shame that you don’t live up to the name of Tron. Let me guess, he recently proved your ineptitude--”_

_Cyrus’s disc cut through the air where he’d just been standing._

_Internally, Dyson grinned at the look of pure rage on Cyrus’s face, barely managing to hold back the emotion behind a blank expression._

_Ego. It never failed on programs like Cyrus._

_“You and your whole kind are the reason why this system deserves to end,” Cyrus hissed. “Scum, the lot of you. Poison to the Grid. To you, we are all pawns to be toyed with--slaves.”_

_Twice, Cyrus nearly caught Dyson in the chest. The third time, however, Dyson deliberately walked into the hit, angling himself so that the white-lined disc cut into the strongest section of his chest armor. He twisted, locking Cyrus’s arm in place with his own, ruthlessly bending it as far backwards as the program's code allowed._ _Cyrus gasped with pain._

_A chunk of Dyson's armor plating fell to the rooftop, splashing down in the rainwater; he nearly slipped on it as he shifted his weight, dragging Cyrus off balance._

_With a well-placed jab, he caught Cyrus beneath the chin with the back of his hand. He put more force behind the hit this time, causing the program’s head to snap back._

_Even when at a disadvantage, Cyrus tried to kick out his legs, but Dyson got there first, twisting his ankle around the other program’s foot and roughly forcing him to the ground. This time, he subdued Cyrus, ruthlessly grinding his knuckles into the circuitry at the base of the program’s skull._

_While the program spasmed from pain, Dyson wrapped the crook of his arm around Cyrus’’s neck and pulled--hard._

_Growling, Cyrus struggled. That soon grew to a howl as Dyson tightened his grip, forcibly bending the program back off the ground, one knee grounding the base of his spine to the rooftop._

_The disk in the security program’s chest fell to the ground in a shower of red voxels._

_He had Cyrus._

_There was no escape for the program this time._

_Already, fracture lines were spreading from the place where Dyson was digging into the program’s circuitry. White-blue voxels slowly cracked, small pieces of lifeblood code already beginning to fall down Cyrus's chest. The grip he had on the program’s neck was tight enough for him to collapse the internal respirator._

_Both options, if taken farther, would likely result in instant emergency shutdown._

_Leaning in, Dyson brought his face right next to Cyrus’s ear._

_“You think that you can run from Clu,” he whispered, “but you know nothing. We all live as we are designated--as we were created. You blame the system, and others blame Clu. Personally, I blame the Users and their damned race. The Grid must be perfected. But the Users... their world can burn."_

_“I will never serve Clu.” Cyrus spat into the rooftop, twisting to try and face Dyson. “You all deserve to die alongside the rest of the corrupted system--”_

_Lazily, Dyson pulled back on the program’s neck a bit harder, cutting off Cyrus’s words._

_“Perhaps, I will enlighten you with some information.” He drawled. “You are nothing special,_ program _, and you never were. Everything you’ve done since the beginning was laid in your path by choice--by strategy. The only failure, was ours, and that was to ignore your own weak-mindedness, Renegade. Freedom is an illusion, an illusion of your creation. You just don't know it yet”_

_Cyrus choked, his face a mask of rage, struggling to breathe._

_“Oh--and whoever said you had a choice?” Dyson’s hiss was quiet, but sharp as a knife. "You're a fool not to accept a gift when it's offered."_

_Slowly--painfully--Dyson began to whisper into the program’s ear, savoring each syllable with a sadistic pleasure._

_Moments later, Cyrus’s circuitry began to flicker, a terrible yellow-orange vein of poison tearing its way upwards from deep within his circuitry._

_It was old code,_ very _old--but powerful. He convulsed, fighting Dysons grip, retching._

_The security program released his neck, and Cyrus fell to the ground, cracking his chin against the rooftop. He shuddered, a terrible glitched whimper leaving his lips._

_Dyson planted a foot in the struggling program’s lower back, pinning him. His eyes glinted as he watched the scene unfold beneath him._

_"It's time to finish what you started,_ soldier.”

_Cyrus’s screams echoed into the night, an accompaniment to the drizzle which still fell across Purgos._

**Author's Note:**

> All comments and kudos are greatly appreciated and I hope that you stick around!  
> You can find any news about updates on my [Tumblr](https://lazarusii.tumblr.com/)!  
> Thank you for reading!  
> 


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